Echoes Over the Horizon by Olivia Salter | Supernatural | Short Story

 

Echoes Over the Horizon

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,361

The screen flickered once, twice, before settling into a grainy image of blue-black waves stretching as far as the eye could see. Mary Chen sat motionless in her darkened apartment, gripping the edge of her laptop as if bracing herself for impact. The timestamp on the video read March 8, 2024. Ten years since Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370 had disappeared without a trace, taking her sister, Mei, and 238 others into the void. Ten years of unanswered questions, sleepless nights, and endless searching, all leading her to this moment—a flickering screen, a strange hope, and the beginning of something she couldn’t yet name.

In her hand, Mary clutched a small silver locket. It was cool against her palm, the surface worn smooth by years of touch. She ran her thumb over its edges, tracing the faint, familiar imprint of Mei’s thumb, still visible on the back. The locket had been Mei’s gift, a charm meant to bring luck on that fateful journey. Mary remembered the moment her sister had pressed it into her palm at the airport, laughing as she whispered, “So you’ll remember me every day. As if you could forget.”

The email in Mary’s inbox had come through late the night before. New Signals Detected. Her heart had pounded as she read the brief message from an investigator she’d been in touch with for years, the words barely processing. A strange rhythm, they’d said—faint, elusive, but recurring—detected in the depths of the Andaman Sea. No definitive explanation, but a hope, however tenuous, that it might be connected to the missing flight.

And so here she was, standing on the edge of the world, staring into a vast, indifferent ocean as the morning sun crept over the horizon. The waves, capped in white, rolled in and out with a steady rhythm, as if echoing the pulse of something unseen. The sea mist hung thick in the air, wrapping around her like a shroud. She could taste salt on her lips, feel the fine spray settle on her skin, grounding her in the present even as her mind drifted back to that last morning with Mei.

She could see her sister as clearly as if she stood before her now, laughing and waving at the airport gate. Mei had always been the lighthearted one, a whirlwind of energy and optimism who saw the world as a canvas to be filled with possibility. She had left home young, traveling, exploring, always on the move. Mary was the opposite—cautious, grounded, the kind to check her travel plans three times before leaving the house. In the years since Mei’s disappearance, Mary had lost count of how many times she’d replayed that goodbye in her mind, wondering if there was something she could have done, some final word or gesture that might have changed fate.

A sudden, low hum rose from somewhere beneath the waves, breaking through her reverie. The vibration seemed to pulse up from the ground, through her feet and into her bones, a faint rhythm that felt eerily like a heartbeat. She squinted at the horizon, her pulse quickening, but saw nothing beyond the churning water and darkening sky.

“Mei,” she whispered, the single word barely audible over the sound of the waves. She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken it aloud, or if the name had merely echoed in her mind, as it had for a decade.

For a long moment, she simply stood there, the locket clutched tightly in her hand, the pulse of the ocean matching the rapid thrum of her heart. She closed her eyes and listened, letting the sound wash over her, feeling as though she was on the cusp of something vast and unknowable. It was as if the sea itself held her sister’s voice, buried beneath the waves, calling out to her in the language of the tides.

***

The days that followed felt both real and surreal, as if Mary were moving through a dream. The signals had drawn a handful of others to this remote stretch of coast—family members of the missing, journalists, and even a few conspiracy theorists, all searching for their own piece of closure. Mary found herself wandering the shoreline, her eyes always scanning the horizon, her heart tuned to the strange hum she had felt that first morning. She struck up quiet conversations with others, each one sharing fragments of stories and memories, their voices low and reverent, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace the ocean offered.

One evening, as she walked along the shore, she met an elderly man named Arun, whose wife had been on the flight. He held a battered leather notebook, filled with pages of handwritten notes and sketches. He explained, in a voice rough with grief, that he had been tracking sightings, rumors, and unverified reports for years, each entry a desperate attempt to connect the scattered pieces.

“They say it’s just static,” he muttered, flipping to a page marked with crude soundwaves. “But I know there’s something in those signals—something real. Maybe not our loved ones, but a part of them. A trace.”

Mary nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in her chest. She felt the locket warm against her palm and clutched it tightly, her mind drifting back to that moment at the airport, to Mei’s laughter, her teasing smile. She realized, with a sudden ache, that she couldn’t quite remember the exact sound of Mei’s voice. The memory was slipping, blurring at the edges, as though time itself was erasing her sister from her life.

That night, she sat by the water’s edge, her legs folded beneath her, watching the waves roll in. The hum was faint now, barely perceptible, but she could still feel it, a quiet throb in the air. She closed her eyes and listened, letting the rhythm lull her, as though the ocean was singing her to sleep.

In the quiet darkness, she began to speak, the words coming unbidden, as if drawn from some deep, hidden place within her. She told Mei about the life she had built without her, about the moments of joy and sorrow, the days that had passed in a blur of ordinary moments. She confessed her guilt, her anger, her sorrow, all the feelings she had kept locked away for so long. And as she spoke, she felt something shift within her—a softening, a loosening of the knot of grief she had carried for so long.

“I’m sorry, Mei,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can keep searching forever.”

The waves lapped at her feet, cool and soothing, as if to answer her. She opened her eyes and looked out at the vast, endless sea, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over her. It was as if Mei were there beside her, a quiet, unseen presence, offering comfort and understanding.

***

Over the next few days, Mary found herself drifting further from the search, her focus shifting from the mystery of the signals to the memories of her sister. She walked the shoreline each morning, watching the sun rise over the horizon, the sky painted in shades of pink and gold. She could feel Mei’s presence in the quiet moments, in the warmth of the sun on her skin, in the gentle rustle of the waves. It was as though her sister was with her, not as a ghost or a memory, but as a part of the world around her, woven into the very fabric of the ocean and sky.

On her last day by the coast, she returned to the spot where she had first heard the hum, the place where she had felt closest to Mei. She stood there for a long time, the locket warm against her chest, her fingers tracing its edges as though trying to imprint every detail into her memory. She closed her eyes and listened, letting the sound of the waves fill her, feeling the heartbeat of the ocean pulse through her.

And then, with a trembling breath, she whispered, “I’ll be okay, Mei. You can go now.”

The wind picked up, carrying her words out over the water, where they were swallowed by the waves. She felt a strange sense of release, a lightness she hadn’t known in years. It was as though a weight had been lifted, a burden she had carried for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to be free.

As she turned to leave, she glanced back at the horizon one last time, her heart full of a bittersweet ache. The waves lapped at the shore, their rhythm steady and calm, a quiet, eternal promise. She walked away, each step a release, each breath a letting go, knowing that while Mei’s fate would remain a mystery, her love would always echo back, a gentle, steady pulse in the rhythm of the world.

As she left the beach, the final whisper of the waves seemed to carry Mei’s laughter, soft and true, like a song remembered from childhood. And in that moment, Mary understood that love, like the ocean, was vast and enduring, a force that could span even the greatest distance, reaching out across the years in a gentle, unbroken rhythm. And though she would never find all the answers, she knew that Mei would remain with her, woven into the tides, her presence as constant as the sea.

For the first time, Mary felt ready to carry that love forward, as steady as the tide.

***

In the weeks that followed, life took on a new rhythm for Mary, quieter and softer, as though some internal storm had finally subsided. She returned to her apartment, now filled with the small but tangible reminders of Mei—photos, trinkets, pieces of a life that once felt like scattered fragments but now seemed like a mosaic, piecing together the memory of her sister in a way that was as clear as it was comforting.

She kept the locket on her nightstand, a reminder not of loss but of connection, something Mei had left her that she could carry forward. Some days, she would sit by her window, holding it in her hand and watching the world outside, letting the quiet pulse of life around her echo the steady rhythm of the waves she had left behind. Mei’s laughter was faint, no longer a voice that echoed in her ears, but a memory that would surface now and then, a gentle reminder of who her sister had been.

The signals, the hum from the sea—all of it faded back into the unknown, a mystery unsolved, yet somehow it no longer felt incomplete. In her conversations with other family members who had lost loved ones on that flight, she discovered that they, too, had found their own ways of making peace. Arun had become something of a friend, and they would often exchange letters or emails, sharing memories and reflections. Through him, she learned that while their grief was their own, there was a shared strength in knowing they had all loved and lost, and continued to live.

One rainy afternoon, an email arrived from a journalist Mary had met by the coast. He was writing an article on the tenth anniversary of MH370’s disappearance and wanted to include some of her story. She hesitated, feeling the old pang of sadness rise up, but after a moment, she typed a short reply, sharing her journey and her realization that the search was not about finding answers but about finding peace.

In the weeks that followed, Mary’s story began to resonate with others, strangers who wrote to her with their own tales of grief and letting go. Some had lost family, others had simply experienced the quiet ache of something unfinished. She found herself touched by the words of strangers, each story a small ripple extending outward, connecting her loss to a larger world of shared sorrow and hope.

She began writing, too, letters to Mei that she would never send, quiet reflections on the small, beautiful things she encountered each day. There was a kind of quiet joy in those letters, a sense that Mei was part of her life even if she wasn’t physically there. Sometimes, Mary would even imagine Mei’s responses, the way her sister might tease her or offer some bit of wisdom from the places she’d traveled. And in those moments, it was as if Mei was still with her, a voice in the background of her life, constant as the tides.

On what would have been Mei’s birthday, Mary returned to the sea. She stood on the same shore, watching the waves roll in, their rhythm familiar and soothing. She held the locket in her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, she opened it and let the small photograph of Mei slip into the water, watching as it floated on the surface before sinking, lost to the vast expanse of the sea.

For a long while, she simply stood there, feeling the pulse of the ocean under her feet, the same steady hum she had felt that day. But now, it was not a call to search or a cry for answers. It was a song of remembrance, of enduring love, a quiet assurance that Mei was part of the world around her, a presence woven into the tides, the sky, and the earth itself.

And as she turned to leave, a single wave curled up the shore, breaking around her feet in a gentle, foaming caress. She smiled, feeling the cool water sink into her shoes, her heart light with the knowledge that while Mei’s fate remained a mystery, her love had not. It was a part of her now, as constant and enduring as the sea.

And for the first time in years, Mary knew that whatever lay ahead, she would face it with the quiet strength she had found within herself—a strength as vast and unyielding as the ocean, steady and sure, carrying her forward like the endless, eternal waves.